


Specificity (Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Ringtone)

by voxmyriad



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Blatant discussion of the best words to describe Dean's dick, I Don't Even Know, Jared is bouncy, Jensen is not a morning person, M/M, Miscommunication, Misha is cryptic, Misha writes fic, Texting, Warning for horrifically catchy pop music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-10 18:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxmyriad/pseuds/voxmyriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dropping subtle hints was Misha’s strong suit. Too bad picking them up wasn’t Jensen’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Specificity (Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Ringtone)

**Author's Note:**

> For reference and your listening pleasure: [Pocketful of Sunshine](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9f6D0rOLfWs) (on YouTube)  
> Spoilers for Season 4, specifically 4x20 (The Rapture) and 4x21 (When the Levee Breaks)
> 
> Disclaimer: Not even close to real. Such a work of fiction. Took all the liberties. Not sorry.

_I got a pocket, got a pocketfulla sunshine, I got a love-_

Fumble, fumble, curse. “Misha, you asslicker, someone better be dead.”

“Do you think _tumescent_ is too pretentious for Dean?”

“...Hangin’ up now, Misha.”

_I got a pocket, go-_

“ _What_?”

“Tumescent.”

“ _What_. Is. Tumescent. Do you even _know_. What time it is.”

“Dean’s cock. It’s...2:17.”

“Hanging. _Up. Now. Misha._ ”

Silence, then another fumble.

“Hello again.”

“And I’m gonna kick your _ass_ later for that ringtone, by the way. Don’t fuck with a man’s phone. Dick.”

Jensen had the presence of mind to turn off his phone this time.

***

“Jesus, dude, you look like warmed-over shit.”

Jensen scrubbed at his eyes, knowing that makeup was going to glare at him when he came in. “Misha called me at ass o’clock,” he muttered, hoping the second cup of coffee would kick in more than the first one had.

“Really? Why?”

“No idea.” No ideas Jensen planned on sharing with the way-too-exuberant oversharer of a co-star currently piling his plate with eggs and sausage.

“Weird. Hey Misha!” Jared called and Jensen managed to both wince and glare at once. “You called Jensen at ass o’clock?”

“2:17,” Misha replied calmly as he took a pastry. “I checked when Jensen asked what time it was.”

“What was so urgent?”

“We don’t-”

“I needed a consultation.”

Jared’s brows drew together in Sam’s patented confused-explain-more look. “Consultation? At 2 in the morning? For what?”

“A project.”

“A project doing what?”

“A project that Jensen can uniquely assist with.”

Jared turned to get Jensen’s take on Misha’s new daily dose of the cryptic, but Jensen had taken advantage of Dean’s hunter abilities and slipped off undetected. Makeup would need extra time with the dark circles under his eyes anyway.

***

_I got a pocket, got a pocketfulla sunshi-_

Jensen didn’t say anything as he squeezed the phone between his ear and the pillow.

“What about _engorged_?”

 _Click. Thud_. He hadn’t even opened his eyes. It would take him half an hour to find his phone in the morning.

***

“You were right.”

Jensen cursed as his all-important first cup of coffee decorated his hand and the cement. “Jesus, Misha,” he growled, stalking past him to refill his cup with jerky, uncoordinated movements. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Neither _tumescent_ nor _engorged_ worked for Dean.”

Jensen stared at him for a moment, trying to decide if there even _was_ a response to that.

“...”

There wasn’t. He mopped coffee off his hand and tossed the crumpled napkin at Misha as he stalked off.

***

_I got a pocket, got a pocketfulla sunshine, I gotta love, got-_

“They want a sequel.”

“Who?”

“My readers.”

Jensen rubbed a hand over his face and tipped his head back to look at the clock. 2:57 am.

He hung up and turned off his phone and rolled over. What the fuck, seriously.

***

It was a nice place they’d found to shoot, a quiet dock on a quiet lake. Jensen could almost see himself here _anyway_ , even without Dean. More likely without Dean, Dean wasn’t exactly a fishing kind of guy.

“We need to talk.”

 _That’s for fuck-sure_ , Jensen thought, but he pushed the tangent deep down even as Dean started and glared up at Castiel.

“I’m dreaming, aren’t I?” Dean said, half-resigned and half-annoyed; trust the damn angels not to even let him have his dreams in peace.

“It’s not safe here.” Castiel looked around, more coiled than usual. Tense. “Somewhere more private.”

Dean snorted, ignoring the movement of the cameras behind them. “More private? We’re inside my _head_.”

“Exactly. Someone could be listening.”

Castiel was more terse than usual too, he was really worried, and that made Dean concerned, for reasons he didn’t always want to examine in the light of full day. “Cas, what’s wrong?”

“Meet me here.” He blinked as Castiel handed him a piece of paper, the camera following the movement smoothly. “Go now,” the angel added and he wasn’t there when Dean looked up again. He held the confused, slightly angry look until he heard “Cut! Nice one, guys. Let’s get one more, sound was having a little problem with the water.”

***

They ran it again, just the same, got the cut, and that was it. Jensen got up, rolling and popping his shoulders as he walked back up the dock, shaking off the distinctive Dean-stalk as he beelined toward craft-services for another cup of coffee. 5 freaking AM, they’d needed them there, to get the sunrise.

“I’m still working on the sequel. It’s surprisingly hard to continue a story I’d thought was finished.”

Oh God. “Misha, it’s too damn early for sequels,” Jensen groaned.

“I thought so too, but the demands of my readers can’t be ignored.”

“The demands of your _readers_ can go fu-”

“Hey kids!” Jared bounded up and Jensen nearly stole his coffee, since he _clearly_ didn’t need it. Jared was an offense to non-morning-people everywhere. But Jared filled his with cream and way too many sugars. It was almost immoral, how sweet Jared drank his coffee.

“Good morning, Jared. Jensen and I were just discussing my project.”

“Oh _yeah_?”

“ _No_ ,” Jensen growled, but it was equally clear that he wasn’t an active part of the conversation anymore.

“Yes,” Misha said serenely, and then rather uncharacteristically, didn’t continue. Jared waited expectantly, but he just took a drink from his craft-services cup, then took the top off and peered inside. “This isn’t my tea,” he said and smiled at Jared, then at Jensen, then he walked off without another word.

Jared watched him go, then swung on Jensen with the inevitability of...of something really inevitable. Fuck, it wasn’t even 7 am yet. Jensen hated mornings. Whenever they happened. But especially when they happened in the _morning_.

“What was that?” Jared asked when it became clear Jensen wasn’t loosening the strings on any bags of cats without being prompted.

“No idea,” Jensen said firmly, and technically it was true, because every time Misha tried to explain, he hung up on him. He might have his suspicions, but they were just suspicions. If Jared wanted to know, he could go badger the ringleader.

Kinda weird that Misha had just dangled that in front of Jared without saying anything more about it though. Like he’d thought better of it.

***

_I got a pocket, got a pocketfulla-_

“Little early, isn’t it? I’ve only been asleep for an hour, it’s not even 2 yet.”

“I’m blocked.”

“That sounds like a personal problem, and something you ought to discuss with a trained professional during normal office hours.”

“Really. I have no idea where to go with this.”

“You realize I still have next to no idea what you’re talking about.”

“My writing.”

Jensen was going to regret this question.

“What writing?”

“My fanfiction.”

 _Click_. Jensen didn’t remember to turn off his phone this time, but Misha didn’t call back.

***

“You were right.” Misha’s voice as Jimmy sounded different than it did as Castiel, it wasn’t as gravelly, it was closer to his normal speaking voice, but right now Jimmy almost did sound like Castiel, weighed down with knowledge he didn’t want, looking at a path he didn’t want to follow.

“I’m sorry we were right,” Dean said, hard because he had to be, because this bastard wouldn’t let Cas back in and they needed Cas, and he didn’t have the space to start feeling for him, even if it would be really damn easy.

“I’m telling you, I don’t know anything.” Now Jimmy sounded worried, maybe a little panicked.

“I don’t think they’re inclined to believe you.”

“And even if they did,” Sam interjected, the gentler voice of reason, dealing with Jimmy as an individual, not just Castiel’s ex-vessel, like Dean felt he had to, “you’re still a vessel. They’re gonna want to know what makes you tick.”

“Which means vivisection, if they’re feeling generous,” Dean growled, feeling itchy. They should be moving already.

“I’m gonna tell you once again,” Sam tried, patience straining at the seams, “you’re putting your family in danger. You have to come with us.”

“How long? And don’t give me that ‘cross that bridge when we come to it’ crap,” Jimmy added, almost petulant in his defiance.

“Don't you get it?” Sam snapped, finally angry. “Forever. The demons will never stop. You can never be with your family. So you either get as far away from them as possible or you put a bullet in your head. And that's how you keep your family safe. But there's no getting out and there's no going home.”

“Well, don’t sugarcoat it, Sam,” Dean retorted, annoyed that Sam’s sharpness had 180-ed them and now he was the one feeling for the ex-vessel.

“I’m just telling him the truth, Dean, someone has to.”

“Cut! Back to one! That was great, guys, a little more intensity for Sam, really make us feel that role-reversal! Okay...”

***

Misha was quiet that day between takes and Jensen didn’t realize until his alarm went off that he’d slept through the night without a phone call.

***

Some scenes were easier to shoot than others. It didn’t always depend on what they were, either: sometimes the emotional rollercoasters went down a treat and the easy exposition scenes were stilted and needed multiple takes to get right (their fault much of the time, Jared or Jensen or both together fucking around, trying to get reactions out of everyone). But Jensen really wasn’t looking forward to this one.

He’d wondered, when he’d read it, if it was something Dean would do.

Tricking Sam into the panic room? Locking him there to detox? Yeah, maybe. Dean was a hardass. Leaving him there alone? Not so sure about that one. Still, what option did he, Jensen, have? The writers were real keen on this idea, this growing rift between the brothers, and Jensen would just need to deal.

Jared was getting closer to Gen anyway, so they were spending less time together outside of work, it would just reflect that.

***

It was hard, like he’d expected it to be, tricking Sam into the panic room. Worse, they had sound problems, lighting problems, he had to stand outside that fucking iron door and listen to Sam’s fruitless arguments for take after take. When they finally got released, Jensen disappeared back to his trailer to work on peeling Dean off himself, layer by layer. Today wasn’t as bad as some, though. Some days it felt like looking for the seeds of Jensen inside an onion of Dean; he was a tenacious fucker who didn’t always want to let go when told.

He had ways of finding himself again: after a hot shower, taking time over his own clothes, different from anything Dean would wear; mussing his hair, sometimes putting some kind of product into it, grabbing a chai or a chamomile tea from craft. Things Dean wouldn’t do. He drank red wine on the nights he couldn’t shake him, Italian, heavy and rich, and read Murakami and Wodehouse, bare feet tucked beneath him.

***

_I got a pocket, got a pocke-_

“Misha?” Surprised; it was 8 pm, hours before Misha was due to call.

“Hi Jensen.”

Jensen glanced up from the pages of his book. Misha sounded a little...well, if this was anyone else, he’d say _depressed_. “What’s up?” he asked, shifting to set his glass down and get up, wandering toward the kitchen.

“Nothing. Just writing.”

God, this again. “Uh-huh.” Did he still have the Thai from the weekend, or had he eaten that? Or had Jared eaten that? Jensen stuck his head in the fridge. “How’s that going?”

There was no answer at first and Jensen propped the phone against his ear as he dug. “Mish? You still there?”

He was on the verge of pulling the phone out to see if the call had been dropped when he heard a quiet, “You’ve never called me that before.”

“Called you what?”

“You’re busy. I should let you go.”

That made Jensen straighten slowly, brows drawing down in concern. Misha never ended a conversation first. “Nah, it’s fine,” he heard himself saying. “I’m just reading.”

“What are you reading?”

Jensen almost laughed at how eager Misha sounded. “You’re gonna laugh.”

“Jensen, when have I ever laughed?”

“When I told you I had most of the Star Wars novels growing up, you laughed until you couldn’t keep your balance, dick.”

“Besides that.”

“Besides that, what? Doesn’t invalidate the laughter. You hurt me, Collins. Cuts deep, mocking a man’s childhood books.”

“I’m sorry, Jensen.”

“Yeah, we’ll see. You can make it up to me.”

“I hope so. So what are you reading?”

Jensen snorted, leaning against the kitchen counter. “If you laugh, I’m hanging up.”

“I won’t laugh.”

“Wodehouse.”

There was a short silence. Jensen took the phone away from his ear in preparation to end the call when there was a murmur from the other end. He put it back to his ear.

“What?”

“Jeeves and Wooster or Blandings Castle?”

“...Jeeves and Wooster,” Jensen answered after a stunned moment. “What’s Blandings Castle?”

“A different collection. They take place in a castle. Called Blandings. They’re about Bobbie Wickham. You remember her, Bertie almost married her once until they both realized what a monumental mistake that would have been.”

“Huh. Haven’t tried those.” This call had just turned seriously surreal. Jensen didn’t _discuss_ his embarrassing British drawing-room literature habit, he just sort of _indulged_ in it. Now he wished he’d picked up _Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World_ again.

Although imagining trying to track Misha through discussing Murakami’s mindfucks...yeah, no. Wodehouse was a much better option.

“They aren’t as interesting,” Misha was saying as Jensen tuned back in. “You picked his best series. I assume you’ve watched the BBC adaptation.”

“The Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie version? Yeah, of course.” Jensen walked back into the living room and dropped back onto the couch. The conversation went easily from there, only ending when Jensen’s phone beeped at him. “Oh, crap, my battery. I should go, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said hurriedly.

“Sleep well, Jensen.”

“...Uh, yeah. You too,” Jensen said a bit uncertainly, and ended the call, staring at the photo of Misha that stayed on the screen for a few seconds before it went dark. Well, he thought, that had been weird. Not...bad weird, he didn’t think. Still though. Weird.

***

Craft services. Coffee. Cup Number Two. The world righted itself.

“Hey Misha.”

“Good morning, Jensen. The sequel was very well-received.”

“Got through that _blockage_ okay, then?” Jensen said with a snort and a roll of his eyes, taking a long drink. Amazing, what sleeping through the night would give you. For one thing, you slept pretty well. Then there was the good night’s sleep.

“Yes I did. Thank you for talking to me last night. It helped a great deal.”

“Well, I’m glad I- wait.” Jensen turned and directed a steel-melting glare at Misha. “You didn’t take any _inspiration_ from that conversation, did you? You said ‘Dean’ weeks ago, when you called, I _know_ you said ‘Dean’.” If there was a, a _J2_ -or-whatever fic floating around now where he read Jeeves and Wooster on his nights off...

“I did say Dean.”

“...So how’d I help, then?”

“You always help.”

Jensen just kind of blinked at that one. “Uh...okay. How do I-”

And then Jared swept up, with Gen in tow, brightening the room with his brilliant smile, or as Jensen privately put it, his “I got laid” look. He was always looser, more easy with his movements, Jared-but-even- _more_ the day after he’d gotten laid, so Jensen guessed that pretty much nailed down any question of whether or not anything was going on between Jared and Gen. That’d be interesting, considering the rest of Season 4.

Jensen didn’t much mind fading into Jared’s background today, though. He had things to think about.

***

_I got a pocket, got a pocket fulla sun-_

“I gotta change, gotta change that fucking ring-tone,” Jensen muttered, still mostly asleep, into the phone. “What, Misha?”

“That was sharp. Were you asleep?”

“I’m always asleep. I’m just brilliant all the time.”

“Do you want to read it?”

“Specificity, Misha, you know I hate pronouns when it’s dark out.”

“Do you want to read my story? It’s receiving excellent reviews. It’s even been recced.”

“...Wrecked? How’s it been wrecked?”

“Recommended.”

“Details or I hang up and go back to fucking sleep.”

“The story I wrote has been picked up by a fanfiction-recommendation community,” Misha explained in something too close to his Castiel-voice for Jensen to really process. He’d been dreaming, hadn’t he? Something about a guy in a wheelchair being a mastermind, and the same guy being an officer, and a different guy who was a cowboy, waving a hat and riding a bucking...bomb? Falling out of a plane? No, wait, that wasn't a dream, that was _Dr. Strangelove_.

Misha wasn’t talking. Oh, right, he was probably waiting for Jensen to talk first, that was how these things usually went. “Uh, that’s great. Real great. Congrats,” he said, covering his closed eyes with one hand as he rolled onto his back.

“So, do you want to read it?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Mish, but it’s...it’s the time you usually call. Namely, ass o’clock in the fucking morning,” Jensen said, not unkindly, he felt. “Right now, all I wanna do is read the inside of my eyelids. ...Tomorrow,” he said, somehow hearing a lot in the silence that poured down the phone. “Email me a link, or whatever. I’ll check it out tomorrow after shooting’s done.”

“I will,” Misha said, sounding a little relieved, or maybe it was Jensen “projecting” or something.

“Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Why do you want to change your ring-tone?”

“Good _night_ , Misha.”

“Good night. Sleep well, Jensen.”

“You too.”

***

Jensen’s ancient alarm clock had been nicknamed Old Faithful by Jared, because it really wasn’t at all, and for that Jensen had punched him on the upper arm hard enough to get him a lecture from makeup - Sam had been shirtless that day, extra work for them - but sometimes it lived up to its entirely-mocking nickname. He woke up scrambling to the shrill sound of his normal ringtone, thank God Misha had only changed Misha’s own personal one, and was almost half an hour late arriving to set. As always happened on days like that, he felt behind all day, was in a foul mood when he got home, and completely forgot his half-asleep promise.

He slept through the night that night without thinking much about that either.

***

_I got a pocket, got a pocketf-_

“Miiiiisha!”

“Oh, are you- you’re out.”

“Yeah, me an’ Jay and a buncha the guys. Where are you? Why aren’t you here? Hey, get off-”

“Mishaaa!”

“Hi Jared.”

“Misha, get your sweet winged title-carded ass down to this bar right fucking now or I swear to God I’m gonna sober up enough to climb- Jen, get off-”

“...fucking assmonkey. Misha? Sorry, Jared’s being a dick. What are you doing? Get down here.”

“I don’t-”

“It’ll be fu-un.”

“I’ve already-”

“Mish. Really. Come.”

There was a long silence, but the call was still connected. Jensen waited, more patiently than he usually did after several Jagerbombs.

“Where are you?”

***

“Of course,” and it was incredible, hearing Castiel’s words in Sydney’s voice, she was the perfect dose of wrong for this, “we keep our promises. Of course you have our gratitude. You served us well. Your work is done. It's time to go home now. Your real home. You'll rest forever in the fields of the Lord. Rest now, Jimmy.”

It was red corn syrup covering Jimmy’s lips, staining his teeth. Jensen wasn’t on-camera, he could think things like that. “No! Claire?”

“She’s with me now. She’s chosen. It’s in her blood, as it was in yours.”

“Please, _Castiel_.” The way he was struggling, voice pitched high with pain, hitching with every breath, it looked like he really had been belly-shot. Jesus. “Me, just take me. Take me, please.”

Dean and Sam and Amelia would hold back when they realized, with dawning horror, that Castiel was speaking through Claire. No lines for them, no interrupting the flow of this scene for Misha and Sydney.

“I want to make sure you understand,” she said calmly, delivering this sentence just like she’d delivered the offer of eternal reward. “You won't die or age. If this last year was painful for you, picture a hundred, a thousand more like it.”

Jimmy’s hand went to Claire’s arm, though whether for insistence or support, no one could tell. He was fading fast, and he was fighting it, desperately, deathly insistent. “It doesn’t _matter_. You take me. Just take _me_.”

“As you wish.” No hesitation, as Castiel reached out and cupped Jimmy’s face with his daughter’s hand, and oh fuck, Jimmy was _terrified_ for just that split second, doubting everything, and then it didn’t matter that there were no special effects yet. Castiel focused past the stunned Claire, got back up like he’d never been down, and walked past Jimmy’s family like they’d never existed, glancing back only when he’d returned to Sam and Dean.

Dean didn’t know who to feel for. He ended up feeling for everyone.

***

Jensen leaned against his kitchen counter, glass of bourbon untasted as he listened to Misha’s phone go to voicemail again.

***

_I gotta po-_

“I was actually awake this time. I’m starting to expect these fucking calls.”

“Do you think Castiel gets drunk?”

“What?”

“I think he should. It’s what people do when things aren’t going the way they’re supposed to.”

“Mish?”

No answer, but he could hear breathing, ragged and loud. He opened his mouth to speak again, then closed it as he barely made out a whisper. “You never call me that.”

“Call you what?”

Cracked, wavery. “Mish.”

“Oh. Yeah. ...I can stop, if you... Uh, Misha, are _you_ drunk?”

“Oh, yes.”

He hadn’t been completely awake, more dozing on the couch in front of a _Dirty Jobs_ marathon, but that woke Jensen right up. “How drunk? On a scale of one to ten.”

Even Misha’s laugh sounded cracked. “I have no idea what that means to you.”

“It’s okay. Doesn’t matter. Where are you?”

***

“Morning, lightweight. How’s the hangover? Alive and kickin’?”

“Oh my god, Jensen, I can _feel_...all of your words...in my _face_.”

“Yeah, that’s called thinking.”

“Get out.”

“You’re on the couch. Okay, next to the couch. Technically on the floor.”

“I hate you.”

“I have coffee.”

“...I’m thinking.”

***

When Jensen got out of the shower there was a peeled blood-orange on the counter, and a note next to it that just read “Walking” in Misha’s writing.

“Kay,” Jensen muttered, looking from the note to the peeled orange and back. “So verbose, how’d you fit it all on the one sheet?” But he shrugged and reached for the orange. _Walking_ about summed it up, after all.

When Misha got back, Jensen was at the table in loose-fitting jeans and a sage-green henley, reading the Wodehouse he’d set down after he and Misha had talked about it. “You look like the mother of all hangovers, cut up and put through a blender.”

“Yeah, and you’re gorgeous.”

“Yeeeah, I know.” Dropping the cocky grin, Jensen stuck a receipt into the book and tossed it to one side. “So what was that about?”

Misha didn’t answer at first, getting a mug and pouring coffee with hands that were mostly steady. Steadier than they’d been when he’d peeled an orange as an exercise in steadying them, before he’d realized there was no way he could eat an orange.

“Jimmy,” he said as he sat at the table and stared at the pips from the orange, in a small pink-tinged heap on a napkin, “isn’t as easy to get out.”

Jensen winced. “Yeah, I know the feeling some days,” he admitted, thinking of the times - more than he liked - that he’d caught himself glancing in mirrors and seeing Dean looking back at him. “They’re sticky,” he added. “They know you. Sometimes they know how to hide, until you realize you’re still doing stuff like they would, not like you would.” He glanced at Misha, but he was just staring into his coffee. Listening through, Jensen could tell, and he continued, “So I find stuff Dean wouldn’t do and I do that. Enough of it and I know I’m me again, you know?”

It took awhile, but Misha stirred and sat back. “Stuff like what?”

***

Neither Dean nor Jimmy would eat lunch at a vegan cafe. Normally Jensen wouldn’t either, but they went anyway, crowding together in the back, knees knocking under the tiny round table in the corner. Jensen had never been there before, hadn’t even realized it _had_ tables, but Misha was apparently a regular and ordered for both of them. Despite arriving as a pale almost-white mint-green, the apple-parsnip soup had been surprisingly not disgusting. Pretty damn good, actually. Huh.

***

Dean and Jimmy wouldn’t go the the Telus World of Science either.

***

Or the Vancouver Art Museum.

***

`Did you read what I wrote yet? Sent: 11:47PM`

`crap sorry, i forgot. Sent: 11:48PM`

Jensen winced as he sent the text. There was something seriously high-school about this - after their day at a few Vancouver tourist attractions, Jensen had automatically driven them both back to his apartment, and Misha hadn’t bothered to correct him for some reason - and he could just go _talk_ to Misha, in person, like they were adults or something, he was in the guest room down the hall, but he didn’t want to admit that he’d still been avoiding the story.

He didn’t have anything _against_ fanfiction - well, most of it - but he didn’t seek it out, and reading pornfic written by his coworker? Was just _weird_.

There was a long pause. A little bit worryingly long.

`It’s fine. I’m thinking of taking it down. Sent: 12:01AM`

Jensen’s brows furrowed and he rolled onto his stomach, the better to type with both hands. Misha’s texts were always written with proper grammar and spelling and it felt...kinda rude not to answer the same way.

`How come? Thought you said it was popular. Sent: 12:04AM`

`It isn’t hitting its target audience. Sent: 12:05AM`

`Its target audience isn’t fangirls? Sent: 12:08AM`

No answer. Maybe Misha had dropped off. They’d walked about five _miles_ of museums today. Jensen set down his phone, feeling like he’d missed something but unsure where to look.

***

The episode-wrap party was at Jared’s, any excuse for a party, and Jensen was two beers and a celebratory bourbon in when Misha stepped out onto the porch. It was still cold in mid-March, especially for a Dallas boy who had moved to LA, but it was sweltering inside and the quiet night and nip of winter felt good for a few minutes.

“Hey Mish.”

“Hi Jensen. What are you doing out here?”

Jensen waved his bottle vaguely at the house. “Too crowded inside. Wanted some peace.” His drawl came back when he was drunk, especially when the drinking had involved bourbon, and between that and the burn of the harder alcohol down his throat, he sounded a lot more like Dean than Jensen. Misha had noticed, from the sharp way his eyes were skimming Jensen’s face.

“What?” Jensen asked after Misha had been silent for awhile longer than he’d expected.

“Should you do something Dean wouldn’t do?”

The words sounded teasing, but the tone was serious. Jensen laughed and shook his head, leaning against the railing. “Not sure there’s anything here Dean wouldn’t do,” he answered with a grin that ended up on the devilish end of the spectrum. It widened when Misha’s eyes did. Sometimes taking a cue or two from Dean wasn’t the worst thing, if it meant he could startle Misha.

But Misha won the startlement competition when he leaned up to kiss Jensen.

 _Wait...wait. What? Misha? Is Misha-_ But then Misha wasn’t anymore, he was pulling back and watching Jensen with an unreadable expression in his narrowed, bright eyes.

“That...might...be something Dean wouldn’t do,” Jensen ventured, trying to spin it into a joke, and he would have believed he’d succeeded a few months ago. Misha did smile, but now he knew him well enough to know it wasn’t fast enough, or the right kind.

“Mission accomplished.” _Mission accomplished._ Misha straightened and hefted his empty bottle as an excuse as he disappeared back inside, his cap of dark hair lost to view in the crowded kitchen almost immediately.

***

`Misha, pick up. Sent: 6:47PM`

`Answer the damn phone. Sent: 8:16PM`

`Misha, it’s as attached to you as it can get without surgery. Sent: 8:33PM`

`I’m not staying up until ass o’clock so you can call me. Sent: 11:15PM`

`Mish, talk to me. Sent: 1:37AM`

***

`About what? Sent: 3:02AM`

`About what happened at Jared’s. Sent: 3:04AM`

`I didn’t know there was anything to talk about. Sent: 3:10AM`

`I can’t just ignore that. Sent: 3:12AM`

`Clearly you can. Sent: 3:13AM`

`The hell does that mean? Sent: 3:20AM`

***

Most days, finding Jensen again wasn’t that hard. He slipped in and out of character on the easy days and the hard days, both of them did, but Sam was detoxing, and Jared was doing it as Method as he could get without going on demon blood in the first place, and Jensen couldn’t find the places to break away from Dean without Jared breaking away from Sam. So he didn’t.

***

Night. Dean stood aimlessly outside Bobby’s, and his head canted as he caught the telltale fluttering of wings. He took his time to face Castiel, pissed as _fuck_ that it had taken this long. “Well, it's about time,” he croaked, hating that he sounded that way, it sounded weak. “I've been screamin’ myself hoarse out here for about two and a half hours now.”

“What do you want?” Cool and impersonal, like the conversation didn’t _matter_ , like _Dean and Sam_ didn’t matter, Castiel was keeping his distance, even as he started walking forward.

The cooler Cas was, the hotter Dean was, and he snapped as well as he could, “Well, you can start with what the hell happened in Illinois!”

“What do you mean?”

Dean stared. “...Cut the crap! You were gonna tell me something!”

Castiel glanced to one side, sounding positively _bored_. “Eh, nothing of import.”

The hoarseness just made the growl deeper. “You got _ass-reamed_ in Heaven. But it was _not_ of _impo-_ ”

“Dean.” And there it was, slipping through the good-and-faithful-soldier facade, all of Castiel’s uncertainty, every crack in his angelic armor laid bare in his eyes - pain, fear, the way Jimmy had looked before Cas took him back - for as long, _only_ as it took to manage a shaky, “I _can’t_.”

Then the mask snapped into place. “I’m sorry,” Castiel continued, looking away, cold as ice. Foreigner seemed appropriate right now somehow. He paced away a few measured steps, bored and impatient once more.

“Get to the reason you really called me.”

***

There was a cup sitting on the top step of his trailer. It was chai, steamed hot, with extra honey and a shot of espresso. Ass-kicking-strong, sweeter than Jensen really liked to admit he enjoyed.

He sat down on the top step and popped off the top, inhaling slowly, and he didn’t move as Misha walked up.

“This from you?”

“Yes.”

“How come?”

“Because Dean wouldn’t drink chai. Neither would Jimmy.” Misha had a cup too, even though Jimmy hadn’t made an appearance today.

“They had good chai at that hippie place with the scary Goth barista dude.”

“Hawkin.” Misha knew everyone.

“...We should do that again.”

“You’d like to?”

“Yeah. It was fun. Why, don’t you want to?”

“...I do want to.”

“So let’s do that again.”

***

_I gotta pocket, got a pocketfulla sunshine, I-_

“Mrph?”

“Don’t read it.”

“Don’t read...oh shit, I still didn’t- wait, _don’t_ read it?”

“No. Don’t.”

“Uh, okay. Why-” But Misha was gone.

Jensen stared at Call Ended until his phone went dark, then got up and went looking for the links Misha had emailed.

***

Google Web History was an awesome invention.

***

`Misha, seriously, pick up your damn phone or next time I see you I’m cramming it up your ass so you always know where it is. Sent: 1:57AM`

`I read it. Sent: 2:30AM`

`It was really good. Sent: 3:04AM`

`Really, seriously good. Sent: 4:14AM`

`Mish, please call me. Or come over. Or text me back, something. Anything. Sent: 6:01AM`

***

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“...I just got coffee made.”

“I know.”

***

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you...you know...how you feel.”

“You wouldn’t have wanted to hear it.”

“How the _hell_ do you even know what I would have wanted?”

“I know you.”

“You _don’t_ know me, Misha, or you would’ve known that I wanted you to tell me outright!”

“I love you, Jensen.”

“I _know_ , idiot, that’s what I’m trying to tell _you_!”

“Then tell me.”

“I love _you_ , Misha!”

“Was that so hard?”

“Yes, actually, it _was_ hard, it's _always_ hard, and if it was so easy, how come _you_ didn’t tell _me_?!”

“Why are we yelling?”

“You yelled first!”

“Actually, you yelled first.”

“What _difference_ does it make?!”

“...You’re gorgeous when you’re angry.”

“...So are you.”

***

Eventually, they came up for air.

“...That was...sudden.”

“Well, I was going to either kiss you or punch you, and makeup gets pissy about face-crap they need to hide, and then I didn’t want to stop kissing you.”

“So why did you?”

“...That is a really good question.”

***

“It was everything, wasn’t it.”

It was afternoon. Everything else outside the impossible tangle of sheets and sunbeams and limbs and slow, peaceful breaths could wait.

“That doesn’t sound like a question. It also doesn’t sound very specific. What happened to specificity, Jensen?”

“Shut up. Specificity’s for _you_. You _always_ know what _I_ mean. The ringtone was part of it, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was.”

“You know that song sucks.”

“Perhaps musically it isn’t as complex as some, but lyrically it was very demonstrative of my mindset.”

"Are you ever going to stop being ten steps ahead of me, Mish?"

“Of course.”

“Yeah? When?”

“When you catch up.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you too.”

***

“Do you think they’re going to brag?”

“Jesus. It’s 2 am, he’s here, he’s still talking to me.” Jensen’s voice was muffled under the pillow. “Who?”

“The fangirls.”

“Seriously, we _just_ talked about this. What did we just talk about, Mish?”

“Specificity?”

“So? Specifically, do I think who is going to brag?”

“The fangirls who already believed we were in a relationship.”

That got Misha a suspicious, slightly worried green eye around the edge of the pillow. “Why? You planning on telling them?”

Misha flashed a grin that was almost Jensenworthy as he let his lips drift lazily down the edge of Jensen’s jaw, like they had all the time in the world. Hell, maybe they did.

“Maybe I’ll just write a story.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal, now here for your AO3 reading pleasure.


End file.
